Work Text:
'come on in boy,' said the skeletons
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michael doesn’t do graffiti often, but on the rare occasions he does, he is careful and precise. no one would ever expect michael jones-of all people-to be good at art, but the process is almost calming to him. he’ll never have the patience to take a pen to a piece of paper and create a masterpiece, but out here, with the city air in his lungs and the low hum of cars on the highway behind him, he can relax.
this one is quick and hasty, but still just as carefully thought as any other message he leaves behind in alleys, on bridges, or bare for everyone to see. a quick movement of his arm here, a perfect circle there, a hesitant line, and the splotch of paint that slides down the wall when he’s done.
this time, the paint doesn’t move the way the light reflects.
michael breathes in and out and turns his eyes to the rising sun. the sky is blood red, exactly like the perfect rubber duck now painted on the wall in front of him; the distinct smell of copper blood filling the air, his own rushing through his veins. he kneels down and cleans his blade thoughtlessly on the coat a man is wearing; with how much blood is already soaking into it, he won’t mind more mess.
yes, someone has died today. someone will die tomorrow. and someone will die the day after that. and on, and on, and on. the world keeps on turning around him.
but death will not come today, not for him.
later on, geoff will drag his fingers across the dried blood and smile. “this will work just fine.”
not for him. today, he is fake.